


A Small Talk At The Back Of The House

by Euphoric_Mandelbulb



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Ambition, Angst and Humor, Canonical Character Death, Edit: No Longer Funetik Aksent, F/M, Family, Gen, I Do Not Know How To Format Footnotes, Martin's Father Was Not A Monster, Minor Character Death, Obsession, Pre-Canon, Rather Ineptly-Rendered London Accent Which Has Managed To Look Quite Like Gordon's, poor communication, probably pretentious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:31:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2766464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euphoric_Mandelbulb/pseuds/Euphoric_Mandelbulb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the Crieff family's last Christmas before the death of Martin's Dad, father and (younger) son attempt to discuss Martin's career plans.<br/>(The key word there is “attempt”.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Small Talk At The Back Of The House

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly set about two years before Martin joined MJN.
> 
> Major spoilers for “Wokingham” and “Gdansk”. Minor spoilers for “Limerick”. (Later note: Zurich-compliant.)
> 
> Rated T for mild swearing and canonical minor character death.
> 
> Apologies for my atrocious rendering of Dad Crieff's London accent! (Edit: now fixed!)
> 
> Title is a reference of sorts to the game “A Small Talk At The Back Of Beyond” by the developer “scriptwelder”: http://armorgames.com/play/14925/a-small-talk-at-the-back-of-beyond It has absolutely nothing else to do with this fic, but it's a great game.
> 
> Not beta'd, because I have no beta :-( Not Brit-picked, because I *am* British :-)

“Well, well. The guest of honour has finally deigned to grace us with his presence, has he?”  
  
“Caitl- Cat, I'm _sorry_ , but I did call as _soon_ as the bus broke down -”  
  
“It's not _just_ that, although dinner's probably ruined thanks to your poor taste in buses. What I _really_ want to know is why we're eating Christmas dinner on the _27_ _th_ of December.”  
  
“I've already explained -”  
  
“According to Mum, you said you had to _work_! What sort of job have _you_ managed to get that's more important than Christmas with your _family_?”  
  
“One that paid time-and-a-half for Christmas Day and time-and-a-quarter for Boxing Day. Now can I _please_ get indoors?”  
  
“Ah, Martin, you're here! Thought it was the postman! Let our baby brother inside, will you, Cat? The cold's getting in!”  
  
“The _heat_ is getting _out_ , actually...” muttered the younger Crieff siblings in unintentional unison.  
  
“Martin! Oh, I've _missed_ you, chap! _Big hug_!”  
  
“No, please – agh...” Martin was crushed in one of Simon's trademark inescapable (and almost airtight) bear-hugs.  
  
“And up he goes!” Simon effortlessly hoisted his little (in several ways) brother into the air, bringing them face-to-face, and swung him round (slowly, so as not to make him black out – a few nasty scares in childhood had got _that_ much through even Simon's head).  
  
“No, let me down! _Put me down_!”  
  
“Whee! He's _flying_!”  
  
“ _Put me DOWN!_ ”  
  
“ _Simon_ , your brother ain't your ragdoll! He flies himself these days, so go and do something useful in the kitchen!” Their father wiped his hands on a teatowel as he emerged, then threw it at Simon.  
  
Simon, still chuckling, plonked a wheezing Martin back onto the floor, then picked up the teatowel and strode off to take his father's place in the kitchen.  
  
“Although, the only one of us who ever played with dolls was _Martin_ , remember?” Caitlyn giggled.  
  
“I ONLY EVER MADE THEM FLY PLANES! AND YOU SAID I COULD HAVE THEM!”  
  
“Martin, calm down. Cat, don't wind him up. Split up, the pair of you.”  
  
Caitlyn stomped upstairs, muttering something about bookshelves.  
  
“Good to have you here at last, Martin – bloody _Christ_ , what the hell's happened to you, son?!”  
  
“Wh- wh- what do you mean? I'm fine, _fine_ , absolutely fine, fine,” Martin assured him, failing utterly to sound casual.  
  
“You're skin and bones! Wendy!”  
  
“Just coming, dear! Oh no, _really_ , Simon, there's no need to trouble yourself, I'll do it in a moment – oh, well, if you're _sure_...”  
  
“Dad, it's _nothing_ , really -”  
  
“You lose any more weight and you will be. Are you ill or summat? I _said_ , didn't I, that black mould'd wreck your lungs!”  
  
“I got _rid_ of the mould, Dad! I'm _fine_ , honestly!”  
  
“Oh, _Martin_ , love! Have you been ill?”  
  
“ _Hello_ , Mum, nice to see you _too_. No, I really, truly _haven't_ been ill! I'm -”  
  
“Have those students been stealing your food? I _said_ you shouldn't live with students, you'd be perfectly welcome to stay here -”  
  
“ _No_ , Mum, they haven't even _touched_ my food, it's all _fine_.”  
  
“Maybe you _should_ come back home for a while, though, if you're having problems – it'd be no trouble -”  
  
“Mum, _no_! I don't _want_ to stay here, I don't _need_ to stay here -”  
  
“For God's sake, son, your shirt is practically falling off. That don't look like 'fine' to me. Now, how's about you tell us why you've lost maybe two stone in six months?”  
  
Martin sighed, staring at the floor. “I... I've been having trouble saving enough money for training flights. So I... cut down on non-essentials.”  
  
“Such as food.”  
  
“Not _all_ food! I do _eat_ , Dad!”  
  
“Eat _what_? Two beans a day?”  
  
“Pasta, mostly. And toast, and potatoes. They're full of energy, really! I'm not _starving_! An- and I take vitamin pills too! It's not -”  
  
“ - not healthy. _Honestly_ , Martin,” Wendy clucked, “I'll put some more vegetables on for you at once! And you'd better have seconds of _everything_.”  
  
“Mum, _no_ , that's not fair on -”  
  
“It'll only take me a minute!”  
  
“- on _Simon_ and _Caitlyn_! He'll make jokes and she'll be all -”  
  
“Don't be _silly_ , Martin! They'll understand! Simon will be _begging_ you to have seconds!”  
  
Wendy strode purposefully back to the kitchen, ignoring Martin's protests. He gave up and turned back to his father.  
  
“Dad, honestly, it's not much different from what the students eat. _Better_ , really – no alcohol.”  
  
“How _much_ are you eating, though? And don't insult me by saying 'three square meals a day'.”  
  
Martin shuffled his feet. “Two meals a day, but that's _plenty_ -”  
  
“Big meals?”  
  
Martin continued to look awkward.  
  
“You been fainting?”  
  
“No!”  
  
Martin's dad raised an eyebrow.  
  
“... only once or twice, when I didn't have a chance to eat until late!”  
  
The eyebrow stayed up.  
  
“... or if work wore me out...”  
  
The eyebrow remained raised.  
  
“...or if I stood up too quickly, but th- that's just my inner ear!”  
  
“No, it ain't. Look, son, I think we need to have a chat in the conservatory.”  
  
“N- no, really, Dad, there's no need for that -”  
  
“Conservatory, Martin. Please.”  
  
Martin sighed, trudged through the living-room, drew the curtains, then ducked under them and out into the conservatory. His dad followed; silence fell as he shut the door, the double-glazing effectively soundproofing the room in both directions.  
  
“Martin, every time I see you, you've given up more. More than you can afford, now -”  
  
“It's worth it.” Martin stared out of the window at the grey sky and brown garden, observing vaguely that the leaves hadn't been as thoroughly raked off as last year and making a mental note to start coming round in the autumn to help his parents with that.  
  
“It never gets you the CPL; all it does is _hurt_ you. There's a fine line between determined and obsessed, and you're about two feet over it by now.”  
  
It was Martin's turn to raise his eyebrows (he couldn't raise just one). “And when did you work _that_ out? When I spent five years intending to be an aeroplane when I grew up, or when I drew an accurate exploded diagram of a McDonnell Douglas MD-11 from memory at age 15?”  
  
“Point taken,” his dad conceded. “But now you've spent thousands, you've hardly ever slept more than five hours a night for years, and you're _starving_ yourself. Can you see now why I'm worried?”  
  
“I always pass the _written_ exams. It's just the instrument rating that's letting me down, and _all_ I need to beat that is practise! I swear, I _will_ pass... sooner or later -”  
  
“I dunno, son. You always did have trouble with this sort of thing.”  
  
“ _What_ 'sort of thing'?”  
  
“Well, y'know... dancing, driving, that sort of stuff. Things that need all your arms and legs working together.”  
  
“I passed my driving test -”  
  
“On your fifth try. The _first_ time, the examiner got out and ran away.”  
  
“Oh, _thanks_. Thank you _so_ much. It wasn't my fault that three of my tests were on pension day!”  
  
Martin's dad sighed sadly. “Even if you manage it: you've failed so many times, son. Is anyone gonna take you on by this point if you _do_ pass?”  
  
Martin bristled. “And what do _you_ know about airline hiring procedures?!”  
  
“All right, all right, I'm sorry; I just worry that if you do manage to pass -”  
  
“ _When_ I pass.”  
  
“Okay, _when_ you pass... I don't want you to find all this was all for nothing.” _  
  
_ “It won't be.”  
  
“Look... back to the subject: can't you just save up a little slower? What's the rush?”  
  
“Well, um... the, er, _irony_ is that with all the jobs, I can barely fit in my training flights between working and sleeping, so I need to be able to afford one _every_ time I have a free spell. If I _didn't_ make this much effort to save up, by this point it'd probably take five _years_ to get enough flying hours.”  
  
“What d'you mean, _by this point_?”  
  
“Well, apart from all my old savings being used up now...” Martin wrung his hands, “I... I keep losing jobs, because they find someone younger and cheaper... or the place closes down... or, well, because they don't like me. Mostly because they don't like me,” he admitted. “So I have to take lower- and lower-paid jobs. For longer hours.”  
  
His dad looked outraged. “They can't fire someone just 'cause they don't like them. Otherwise the country'd be self-employed.”  
  
“Well, that's not _exactly_ what they say. Sometimes they, well, find an excuse - like a mistake, or arguing with someone. Other times they just say I wasn't, um, 'conducive to team efficiency' or to 'a good working atmosphere'. Or something along those lines.”  
  
“And you just sit there and take it? Next time, you give 'em what for! The trick is to not go squeaky.”  
  
“I do _not_ go _squeaky_!” Martin shrieked indignantly. His dad gave him a pointed look. Martin blushed.  
  
“Anyway... look, son, have you thought about maybe training for something better-paid, so's then you'll have more flying money in less time -”  
  
“Oh _God_! You just want me to _give up_ , don't you?! Take on any old job, like _you_! Well, I'm _not_ like you! I've _always_ wanted to be a pilot, I've _only_ ever wanted to be a pilot, and I'm _going_ to be a _pilot_ , no matter what you say!” Martin was practically screaming, now. “I thought I'd finally got this _through_ to you after you gave me those sodding _career guides_ -”  
  
His dad facepalmed. “Not _any_ old job, son. I _do_ know how much you love planes. I was thinking, maybe _fixing_ planes?”  
  
“That needs a Aerospace Engineering _degree_ , Dad!”  
  
“Oh, right. Sorry, my brain's still in the past a bit. Still thinks in terms of apprenticeships. How about... oh, what's it called? Airport version of a signalman?”  
  
“Air Traffic Controller?”  
  
“Yeah, that.”  
  
“That'd be like putting a diabetic in charge of a sweetshop!”  
  
“... you're the one person who definitely won't nick the merchandise?” his Dad finally hazarded, looking perplexed.  
  
“ _No_! As in, I'd be surrounded _all day_ by _wonderful_ things which I couldn't _have_!”  
  
“Still... a step up from plane-less jobs, right?”  
  
“I'd need to stop working to train. Which I can't afford to do -”  
  
“Well... I can't _promise_ anything, but I'd be willing to -”  
  
“ _No_ , thank you - and which would leave me no _time_ or money for training flights.”  
  
“Well... 's only a year or two, surely? And then, all the flying hours you could wish for!... close to, anyway.”  
  
“I don't _want_ to spend years watching planes and never flying them! I spent _eighteen_ years watching planes instead of flying them, and by the end it was almost unbearable. I _can't_ go back to that now I've actually _flown_. Not now I know, _really_ know, how it feels. I'd _die_.”  
  
His dad thought for a while. “How d'you manage between flights at the mo'?”  
  
“With difficulty,” Martin admitted sadly, blushing hard. “Mostly by... counting up the money and counting down the days. And even then, if it takes too long to save up I start feeling... miserable.”  
  
“What sort of miserable?”  
  
“Like my head's full of... grey.”  
  
“You've lost me, son.”  
  
“Erm... everything starts to seem sort of... empty, because I want – I _need_ to fly, _so_ badly.”  
  
His dad looked rather alarmed.  
  
“Once, I was _so_ desperate, I... this is going to sound so _stupid_... I, um, I got a tattoo. Of a Lockheed Martin F-22 Raptor. On the top of my foot, so I can see it first thing in the morning and last thing at night. It, er... cheers me up a bit. Not much, but, well, enough to keep me going a bit longer.”  
  
His dad remained silent.  
  
“It was a waste of money, I _know_ -”  
  
“Sounds like a good investment, actually.” Mr Crieff gingerly patted his son's shoulder, wincing slightly at how much detail of the bones within he could feel.  
  
They stood in silence for some time, staring out of the window.  
  
“You know,” Martin's dad eventually said, apropos of nothing, “when you were little, and practising at being a plane, you didn't stick your arms right out like most kids playing planes. You kept them pointed back a bit, like a real plane's wings. Right clever, that was. And it meant you didn't knock down half as much as we'd expected.”  
  
Martin contemplated this remark. “Er... thanks, Dad. And, um... I fixed a toaster last month. Like you taught me. Saved having to buy a new one, so the students gave me a pumpkin as a thank-you.”  
  
“Good for you, son!”  
  
“Turns out pumpkins are _really_ tricky to cut up. I still haven't got all the feeling back in some of my fingers.”  
  
“Oh. Sorry to hear that... I could never do pumpkins neither.”  
  
“It's just typical of my life, really...”  
  
The door flew open, and Simon stuck his head through under the curtain. “Dinner's up, chaps!”  
 

*******

  
“And of course, the _guest of honour_ gets bigger portions -”  
  
“Cat, shut it,” snapped her father.  
  
“Careful there, Martin, don't want to be too heavy for take-off!” Simon laughed.  
  
“Simon, shut it _now_.”  
  
Silence prevailed for some time, aviation having been banned from Crieff household dinnertime conversation since 1984.  
  
Eventually, Wendy managed to get the family talking about their jobs: Caitlyn and her father competed for “weirdest person dealt with in the line of duty”, mostly succeeding in preventing Simon from droning on about what Griffiths did in the budget meeting and why that unbearable old fool Jackson should be put out to grass. Wendy chipped in now and again with tales of unbelievably messy offices and odd things found in bins*, and for a while conversation flowed nicely.  
  
Then it finally occurred to Simon that Martin had been conspicuously silent throughout.  
  
“So, Martin, _your_ job must be pretty exciting at the moment, eh?”  
  
“Wh- what?” Martin spluttered.  
  
“Well, so busy they wanted you in over Christmas, and so interesting you took them up on it!” Simon explained. “Don't let them wear you out, will you, chap?”  
  
“I won't, thanks, Simon – _no_! They paid extra for working over Christmas, and I needed the money. That's all,” Martin muttered sullenly.  
  
“What exactly _is_ your job at the moment, Martin?” Caitlyn asked. “You've never said.”  
  
Martin groaned. “Fine. Fine! If you _must_ know: I'm cleaning up in a pub all evening and shelf-stacking on the graveyard shift. Every day that I'm not training. Happy now?”  
  
“Oh, _Martin_ , love, I don't like to think of you walking home in the dark!”  
  
“And night-shifts'll mess up your sleep, chap!”  
  
“They pay better. And it's past dawn when I walk home, Mum, and there's usually no-one around -”  
  
“Well, then who'll hear if someone jumps out at you?”  
  
“Mummo has a point, Martin! No, I think you should try being a _waiter_. Rake in the tips, you'll buy your plane trips in no time!”  
  
Martin rolled his eyes. “Simon, I've _tried_ to get waiting jobs. But I can't carry four plates at once, I have no experience and no 'people skills' – hence, no tips – and the only place that _did_ hire me fired me after two _hours_ for dropping a whole lasagne down my boss's trousers!”  
  
“Now, now, Martin, there's no need to be like that. Simon's just trying to help -”  
  
“I know you _mean_ well, Simon,” his father interjected, “but will you _please_ stop talking bo-”  
  
Wendy cleared her throat and gave her husband a sharp look.  
  
“- through your hat,” he amended.  
  
“You know, that's always struck me as such an _odd_ expression. Especially since _nobody_ wears a hat these days!” mused Simon.  
  
“Especially not me,” Martin mumbled sadly, apparently addressing his Brussels sprouts.  
  
  
*Weirdest, as judged by the other Crieffs: prosthetic leg, which eventually turned out to have been sneaked in and binned by the vengeful soon-to-be-ex-spouse of its owner.

 

*** * ***

  
A few days later, the doctor informed Martin's father that his blood pressure was still dangerously high despite his best efforts. So, as one of his New Year's Resolutions, he made out his Will.  
  
  
“Are you _sure_ about that, dear? You know how much _Simon_ would love it.”  
  
“Yeah – like a new toy. One month later, he'd get bored and leave it to rust. Besides, he's already got a car. Nope – Martin's having the van. Follows instructions to the letter, does Martin – might not work on people, but he'll keep that van going 'til it falls apart, and then some. Simon won't even bother with an oil change or MOT.”  
  
He smiled fondly. (Mr Crieff sometimes wondered whether one of the attractions of aviation for his younger son was the sheer volume(s) of rules, procedures and regulations - he'd been left speechless by the size of the manual Martin apparently needed to learn by heart. Martin didn't cope well with spontaneity – rules seemed to calm him, as though they were protection against the unexpected.)  
  
“A few grand wouldn't last Martin long, anyways. There's all sorts he can do with a van... with any luck it'll at least give him a few more hours' sleep, and maybe he can raise his flight money with some sort of job that don't need much dealing with people.”  
  


*****SIX MONTHS LATER*****

  
Martin staggered away from the airfield, still hardly daring to believe what had happened. He switched on his mobile with some trepidation, in case actually saying the words would jinx them somehow.  
  
To his surprise, the phone bleeped frantically.  
  
Twenty-three missed calls. Eighty-seven new text messages.  
  
All from members of his family, but that in itself wasn't surprising – they were the only people who knew Martin's number apart from his bosses and flight instructors.  
  
He rang Caitlyn, on the grounds that she'd give the most straightforward answer.  
  
“ _Finally_ ! How did you manage to sleep through -”  
  
“Cat, what's happened?”  
  
“Dad's in hospital.”  
  
“ _What_? Why? Is it _serious_? How -”  
  
“He's had a stroke... he... they, um, they think... it doesn't look like he's going to make it.”  
  
“Oh _God_. I- I- I'm on my way!”  
  
“Ok- hold on. Pardon?” Caitlyn called to someone. “Mum says take a taxi and she'll pay for it when you get here,” she relayed into the phone a few moments later.  
  
For once, Martin didn't argue.

 

*******

  
“He's still going, Martin. They're not sure whether he can hear us, though.”  
  
Martin grabbed his father's limp hand and bent to speak into his ear, all the same.  
  
“Dad? I... I passed my instrument rating. The last component. I've passed everything! I'll get my CPL! I've _done it_!”  
  
“ _That's_ your last words to him?” Caitlyn snorted. “You bloody selfish _bastard_.”  
  
Martin shot her a glare, before turning back (hence missed the slight twitch at the corner of his father's mouth as the man desperately tried to smile). “ _Anyway_ : I love you, Dad; I love you _so_ much. Um... please don't die. Not yet. Please?”  
  
The heart monitor promptly began to stutter, then gradually flatlined.  
  
The family stared at it in disbelief, as medical staff gathered around the bed and called frantically for atropine and adrenaline, and eventually Martin started to laugh hysterically.

  
  
*******

  
“So, Martin, you got the van, eh? Well done, chap!”  
  
“Yes, _whoopee_. I got an ancient van with so many issues that it keeps taking time off for therapy. Along with Dad's signet-ring, and his... _bloody_ toolkit and multimeter, what the hell am I supposed to do with _those_? Quite some way to say 'give up, you idiot'.”  
  
“Cheer up, Martin! Remember the day you got your GCSEs? I've never seen Pappy so proud as when he saw your 100% for Physics!”  
  
“Yes, because HE taught me all the tricky bits like how to draw refraction. And then the very next – the _very next_ day, he presented me with a pile of university _prospectuses_ and _career_ _guides_! And when I asked why, he said that 'being a _flying bus-driver_ ' wasn't _good enough_!”  
  
Caitlyn scowled. “I saw those guides.” Her voice was cold and quiet with deadly fury. “One of them was for _satellite engineering_. That's how much potential he thought you had. And you _literally_ threw it back in his face, with a side order of insults. Are you honestly surprised that he only left you the van?”  
  
“...but I don't _want_ to do anything else...” Martin muttered feebly, turning red(der than usual) and staring at his shoes with brimming eyes.  
  
“Tell you what, chap, how's about we swap?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Well, I don't really _need_ five grand, the council's pretty generous at the moment; I'll swap it with you for the van.”  
  
Martin thought hard. It was _so_ tempting... but five grand wouldn't keep him going for more than a year, and his Dad had (infuriatingly) been right about nobody wanting a pilot who'd taken seven goes to get his license. If things went _really_ pear-shaped, the van would be better than sleeping rough...  
  
“No, I don't think so, thanks.”  
  
“Eh? You're not serious, surely?”  
  
“I'll... need transport to get to work once I get a job with an airline. Better the van than nothing.”  
  
“Ah, don't think you've thought that one through, chap. See, cheapest places'll be right by the airport, because of the noise -”  
  
Martin stammered something about the toilet and ran off before Simon could steamroller him. (That moustache got bushier every year.)

  
  
*******

  
When his first pay packet from his first (rubbish) piloting job came through, he bought a car, to prove that he didn't _need_ that bloody van.  
The car was, if anything, _less_ functional than the van, but it was _his_ and it didn't remind him how low an opinion his dad had had of him and everything he stood for, so he put up with its eccentricities and its hideous pea-soup colour and its mysterious, tenacious smell of duffel coats. And parked it at his family's house that Boxing Day very _pointedly_.  
  
(Not the best of ideas, as it turned out. His Mum tutted and kept offering to have a go at trying to get the smell out; Caitlyn laughed outright and ripped the piss out of it all day; Simon asked whether the van had broken down, declaring that if so he'd still be willing to swap inheritances: Martin pretended not to hear him, claimed indigestion – not even a lie - and hid in his old room for an hour.)  
  
  
When the airline started to founder, Martin was the first to be made redundant (he was _fairly_ sure that he hadn't imagined the sound of cheers from the office a few seconds after he'd left it for the last time). Job-hunting went, if anything, even worse than before. So all his new “luxuries” had to go.  
  
He didn't honestly expect that anyone would buy the car. Nobody could be _that_ desperate – or stupid. Surely?  
  
Then, just as he was about to give in and have it scrapped, a relentlessly cheerful young man (accompanied by his formidable mother, who spent most of the time glaring at Martin with undisguised suspicion) bought the car without even trying to beat him down on the price.  
  
When the buyer spotted the pilot-wings bumper sticker, and Martin decided to be honest and admitted to being an _unemployed_ pilot, the mother finally spoke – inviting Martin to attend an interview at the airfield in two days' time.  
  


*****SOMEWHAT OVER EIGHTEEEN MONTHS LATER*****

  
Martin and Douglas glared at the clock. Four hours _still_ left to go before they reached Limerick.  
  
“So... your siblings got five grand each, if I recall correctly?”  
  
“ _Yes_ , I'm _well_ aware that I got the _booby prize_.”  
  
“How much have you earned with that van? _Overall_?”  
  
“Erm...”  
  
Martin ceded control to Douglas and did some mental calculations (factoring in repair costs etc.).  
Then he started to laugh. “Didn't think of _that_ , did you, you... _vicious old bugger_!” he muttered towards the ceiling.  
  
“And, of course, without the sort of second job that you could fit in around our trips, you'd never have been able to take up Carolyn's offer of captaincy,” Douglas added.  
  
Martin laughed even harder, ending up with a spectacular case of hiccups which led to the entertaining (though messy) spectacle of his and Arthur's various attempts to cure them.  
  
Douglas smirked triumphantly (he insisted to himself, because Douglas Richardson absolutely did _not_ , under _any_ circumstances, _smile_ _warmly_ – that was a facial expression reserved for use by people who _cared_ ).

 

*****ABOUT TWO YEARS LATER THAN THAT***  
  
**

Martin had wanted to visit from the moment when his Mum had revealed the truth about the bequest, but a van job straight after his “Mum shift” meant that he hadn't had time until now.  
  
“Er... hi, Dad.” Martin gave a nervous chuckle, feeling a little silly talking to a gravestone. “I, um... wanted to apologise. All this time, I thought you didn't care. About what I _wanted_ , certainly. Maybe you didn't _understand_ about the flying – no, you _definitely_ didn't understand – but, well, now I know that you did _care_ , and... I'm so, _so_ sorry that I ever doubted you. It... it seems so _obvious_ now. And that van has been... _vital_ , really, so... thank you. _So_ much.”  
  
He thought for a while, twiddling the signet-ring (only slightly tarnished by its brief sojourn in the stomach of Goose #22).  
  
“The toolkit and multimeter... they _weren't_ a hint, were they? You gave me those because they were _yours_. Because you'd had them for so long, and you didn't want them thrown away or sold to a stranger. Same as the signet-ring.”  
  
He propped the bouquet** and the little toy otter against the gravestone, said his farewells, and strolled away still deep in thought.  
  
That night, Martin hauled the toolkit out of the bottom of his chest of drawers and retrieved the multimeter from where it was propping up his desk (he replaced it with an outdated flight manual – not without a slight pang), and stood them in the corner of his horrible attic.  
The multimeter fell over every time the students had a party, but it was the best memorial he could manage.  
  
  
** Reduced for quick sale, much to his shame. Already looking exhausted.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to see “Martin's father was not a monster” become a proper AO3 tag...
> 
> As John Finnemore hastily explained on his blog, Caitlyn declared aged 17 that she wanted her name pronounced Cat-lyn, and although her family were fine with it they slip up occasionally – especially if she's not present: http://johnfinnemore.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/wokingham-place-holder.html 
> 
> My headcanon is that Martin used to enjoy “flying” from Simon when he was little, but has long since outgrown it – as the wonderful Mr Finnemore (again) put it in the aforementioned blog post, we revert to our old roles when we visit our families, and Simon will always think of Martin as a nine-year-old.
> 
> The Cabin Pressure timeline seems a little unclear – especially Arthur and Martin's ages, since Arthur seems to remain 29 for almost two years – but Martin would have been about 14 or 15 when the McDonnell Douglas MD-11 was launched.
> 
> The driving-test examiner running away is based on my mother's first driving test. (My mother proceeded to stubbornly sit in the car until the hour was up, because she'd paid for the whole hour and was going to get her money's worth. She's that sort of person.)
> 
> The PC who visited my school regularly to impart advice of varying reliability told us to have driving lessons on the local pension day, just in case our test was on that day, because it's when traffic is most difficult. This may be completely wrong (he was a connoisseur of urban legends).
> 
> I originally read the “diabetic in a sweetshop” simile in a book (can't remember which), where it was used to describe being a straight woman accidentally attending a gay men's club night.
> 
> Since we don't know – as far as I'm aware – what Wendy Crieff's job was/is, I made her a caretaker (janitor/custodian, to Americans). School or office, your choice (school ones do tend to receive more awe). It seemed to suit her. Feel free to complain and/or tell me a better idea.
> 
> By “all evening”, Martin means 4pm-closing time (his shelf-stacking job is from midnight-8am).
> 
> “Talking through your hat” means acting like a know-it-all on a subject about which you know very little. E.g. Simon's plan to have Dr Smiley the podiatrist give Wendy a cardiac checkup. (Although Dr Smiley would have learnt about heart conditions during his initial medical degree...)
> 
> Martin got his first *job as a pilot* four months after his dad died – so it's possible that his dad was alive when Martin qualified. I couldn't resist the little scenario here, clichéd as it is! I went for a stroke partly because it didn't seem to have been used by anyone else, but also because it made it feasible for Martin's dad to have survived for a few hours afterwards while unable to respond.
> 
> Atropine and adrenaline: both stimulate cardiac function, hence are administered in the event of asystole (flatline). Defibrillators are useless if the heart isn't doing anything – they synchronise the beating of each individual cardiomyocyte (heart cell) in order to restore a proper heartbeat, so they're only useful for “shockable rhythms” such as ventricular fibrillation (the cells all beating out of synch, so the heart appears to be quivering).
> 
> Martin's good at maths, did the calculations for Douglas' intended sweetstrafing (which became the sugar brick) and knows everything there is to know about planes. It's not much of an extrapolation to assume that he was good at Physics. (GCSEs replaced O-Levels in 1988, when Martin was only about 11 or 12.)
> 
> In case it isn't clear: Martin thought that his Dad meant “a son who's a pilot isn't good enough for me” - his Dad actually meant “I don't think a job as a pilot would be challenging enough for you”. Poor communication kills...
> 
> Admission to the UK's one and only Satellite Technology degree course is extremely selective – only the VERY best get in.
> 
> Martin's horrible attic, since it's in a town with a lot of demand for student accommodation, would cost at least £300pcm in rent. At least he only has to pay 1/6th of the bills!
> 
> Housing near the airfield would probably be in high demand by airline staff. Maybe. It was the only reason I could think of for Martin possibly not living within walking distance of the airfield (since Carolyn usually has a taxi collect the pilots, and his van is at the airfield when he calls from the hospital in "Ottery St Mary").
> 
> It's not entirely clear whether Martin's dad did mean the van as a hint that Martin should give up on the CPL, but it definitely wasn't the booby prize. Okay, so my headcanon is that Martin was actually his dad's favourite, just as Simon seems to be Wendy's... (poor Caitlyn, add that to her job as a traffic warden and no wonder she's a bit snappy...)
> 
> Goose #22: see the deleted scene script on John Finnemore's blog post for Uskerty http://johnfinnemore.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/uskerty.html.


End file.
